


Soul Painting

by Eyvindr



Category: Bleach
Genre: Adult Content, Drama, M/M, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-08
Updated: 2012-06-08
Packaged: 2017-11-07 06:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyvindr/pseuds/Eyvindr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a morning like many others. Urahara knew that when the sun rose, the paint would return along with that other person. He was someone cold, someone dreadful, but Urahara knew this Mayuri, too. UraharaxMayuri</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul Painting

**Author's Note:**

> **a.n.:** This fic is x-posted with FFnet. I really like how it turned out so I decided to put it up here too, just in case it becames victim to FFnets recent trolling...khm... I mean **_purging_** rampage. =_=
> 
>  **Timeline:** This fic takes place only a few days before Urahara gets exiled.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Bleach and all recognizable characters in it belong to Tite Kubo, not me. I am also not getting payed for writing this.

  


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Urahara awoke to a rush of cool, damp air hitting his face and filling the room, as the paper screened garden door slid open with a dull thud. It was still early in the morning, the stars were shining high up in the sky. His room was silent, save for the occasional, faint snoring filtering in from the barracks. He groggily opened his eyes and pulled his quilt up to his chin, glancing out from under it. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the heavy darkness of the room before he noticed the silhouette of a slim figure, draped in a simple sleeping yukata, hands fumbling with something as he leaned over the dressing table. A moment later, Urahara heard the sharp crackle of a match, and suddenly light flared between the fingers of the figure, expanded, arched up to the ceiling and poured to the distant walls. When the fire stilled, the man took his hand away and lit a candle on the table and Urahara could see his face at last.

It was Mayuri.

He must have came from the bath; his skin was moist and radiant in the candlelight and damp curls of hair pressed to the nape of his neck. He looked sleepy and his eyes were red, yet Urahara knew must have been awake for hours by now.

Over the past nine years, Urahara couldn't remember ever waking up before him. Most mornings he found Mayuri fully clothed, fully painted, sitting by that table for hours, reading a book at the soft light of the dawn or scoffing to himself at some article he had seen in the magazine of the Court of Pure Souls while flipping through its pages. At other times, he would just stare into space silently, deep in his thoughts, almost as if he was just listening to the noises of the morning. Then suddenly he would take a deep breath and would say that the division budget must get raised and Urahara must buy new devices to the laboratory, or would describe a new experiment he had just decided to make as soon as he would have some free time.

Urahara knew that at times like this Mayuri wasn't really talking to him; he was just proclaiming his thoughts to the world, and to Urahara as the most convenient listener in it. Yet Urahara couldn't help but love these moments. Still half asleep, his mind foggy with dreams, he would just listen to Mayuri spellbound, lazily stretched out on his futon so he could lean his head on his elbow and gaze up into those icy, copper eyes. Sometimes he nodded as an answer, but he almost never heard a word of what was told to him.

And then, there were these mornings; these rare, stolen moments of intimacy.

Urahara remained silent, carefully keeping up the impression of sleep, watching only from under his heavy leashes as more and more candles were lit, until the room blazed with harsh yellow light. Mayuri settled himself in front of the table, and as the folds of his yukata were parted and slid off his shoulders, revealing a long, smooth neck with skin sparkling white from the dye up to the throat and the first few bumps of his spine, Urahara felt his mouth go dry. He wanted to get up, to touch him, to brush his hair, but didn't move; he was too afraid of the other's anger. What would he do if he knew Urahara was spying on him? What would he say? Urahara didn't know, but this moment was too perfect and this longing was too precious for him to break it; he wanted to savor it, if only for a little longer.

He saw as Mayuri picked up a small jar from the table and opened it. There was a thick, waxy paste inside, so it took a few tries for Mayuri to take and scrape some out into his hand. He warmed the paste up in his palm and when it softened into a cream, he rubbed it into the skin of his face and the unpainted part of his neck. When he finished with this, he wiped his hand on a rag and opened another jar, the bitter smell of his white make up filling the air. He stirred the paint with one of his flat make-up brushes and when he was satisfied with its thickness he picked up a small hand mirror and turned his back to the table.

Urahara froze. For a moment he thought Mayuri noticed that he was awake, but the other shinigami didn't even look at him. His eyes were fixed on the small mirror as he tried to move it in an angle, trying to find the image of the other one behind him in it, watching himself reflected all the way to infinity through them. When he at last found the reflection of the nape of his neck, he picked up his flat brush and began to paint it white. After finishing, he put the hand mirror down, turned back to the table and repeated the whole process on his throat, and again with a smaller brush on his face. He then put the brush down and smoothed over the paint with a soft cloth, smearing it to an equal consistency everywhere on his skin. When he finished, his whole face took on an eerie pallor, powdery white in color, as if he was made of bone china. It also glistened just as evenly in the candlelight, noticed Urahara in amazement; all the shadows and lines of his face seemed to smoothen and disappear under this ghastly paleness.

Mayuri put the brush down and took a long, appraising look of himself in the tall mirror, turning his face from right to left, clearly liking what he saw. Then as though startled, he froze, and though his face remained passive and his lips still, suddenly Urahara became painfully aware of that pair of golden eyes that had been turned on him. He quickly averted his glance, only to see Mayuri in the large mirror in front of him, watching him through the reflection with an unreadable expression.

"I expect you have been awake for a while now," he said on a low, but strangely emotionless voice, without turning around. "Have you been enjoying yourself?"

Urahara got up with a chuckle and drew close to Mayuri. Without noticing what he was doing, he reached out, brushing his fingers against Mayuri's hair and curled a soft lock around them.

"Yes," he whispered with a wide, boyish smile. "Very much..."

"Would you try to keep your hands to yourself?" said Mayuri stiffly. He reached up to shoo the curious fingers away, but they hooked in his kimono, and slid over its soft hem as Urahara, ignoring the words, put his long arms around Mayuri's shoulders, keeping his eyes locked on their reflection. When he noticed the annoyance flashing in Mayuri's eyes, he broke out in laughter and pressed a small kiss against the other's jawline.

"How can you be so grumpy so early in the morning, Kurotsuchi-san?"

Mayuri's eyebrows knitted into a frown, but he didn't answer, rather he turned his attention back to the jars on the table. As he leaned forward to pick a small, glass one, his kimono slid even lower on his shoulders, and Urahara's heart skipped—on the rising air he could feel the warmness of the other's body, the perfume of the bath oils mixing with the earthy, salty smell of his skin.

There was paint in that other jar too, except it was coal-black, so as Mayuri dipped the brush in it and rose it up in the air again, it fell back in heavy, oily droplets from the hair. Mayuri pushed off Urahara's arms and leaned closer to the mirror, his lips slightly parted in concentration, to finish his make up, when Urahara's hand clasped on his wrist, stopping him.

"Let me do it for you!" he whispered hoarsely. Mayuri froze and lowered the brush. "Please, let me..." repeated Urahara as he stole the brush from Mayuri's narrow hand.

Mayuri looked at him with mingled wonder and distrust, but when he turned his gaze away and answered, disinterest veiled his voice.

"Do as you like."

With this, he closed his eyes, yielding to the begging words, and just sat there, motionless, letting himself to be touched, drifting with the strokes of the brush.  
After a while, Urahara reached out, his hands on Mayuri's chin to right his face, a thumb tracing tenderly on his jawline, and breathed in his ear.

"It is finished."

Yellow eyes snapped open, brilliantly illuminated by the candlelight, cutting a sharp contrast with the blackness of the paint around them. Seeing them focusing on him, Urahara could feel as a smile grew on his face despite himself, mesmerized like a man whose heart is too full of feelings to speak.

At this sight, Mayuri broke into a mocking, soundless laugh.

"With each passing day you are turning more and more into a sentimental fool," he said. "And to think I was once fond of your company..."

"Once?" asked Urahara with a playful, surprised smile. "So, you don't like it anymore?"

Mayuri only snorted dismissively as an answer.

"I have no fondness for fools."

"A fool you say..." Urahara demurred, leaning so close that he could feel Mayuri's soft, hot breath against his lips, the other's yellow eyes widening in alarm. He could feel his own heart pounding with his excitement growing at the sight. "How cold," he whispered as his hand slipped under the folds of the yukata.

"Urahara!" snapped Mayuri, but his voice suddenly left him as he noticed the warm palm sliding slowly up on the inside of his thigh, "I..." He tried again, but he was silenced immediately by a hungry kiss. Tender caresses behind his knee, triggered an involuntarily shiver that run down his spine and he moaned into the Urahara's mouth.

To that Urahara pulled back.

"You were saying?" he whispered amusement shimmering in his voice; but the only answer he got was a triumphant smirk. Urahara felt his blood rise at the sight of that taunting, that provocative mouth and with a groan, he pushed Mayuri to the ground by pressing his palm to that white chest. He felt that lean body arching up against him, and heard a sharp gasp, heavy with thinly veiled lust as he bit down hard on his neck. He felt the bitter, metallic taste of the dye spread in his mouth, a pair of hands burning on Urahara's neck, fingers forcing their way between his skin and his yukata, tugging and ripping at it mercilessly until he was completely naked. Hard fingernails were trailing down his side, fluttering over the plain of his ribcage, down his stomach, testing his flesh. His muscles tightened as Mayuri brushed along the inside of his thigh teasingly, yet uncharacteristically soft. Long, slender fingers were folding around his cock and Urahara's breath shuddered against the other man, as he realized-good grief, if this didn't stop he was going to come from this simple touch.

"Don't!" he moaned against Mayuri's mouth, lips tingling, and then moved away, grabbed Mayuri's wrists a pinned both of his hands against the floor above his head. "Keep your hands where I can see them!"

He could hear Mayuri's breathless laugh against his ear:

"Oh my! Now this isn't very fair, is it?"

Urahara didn't answer. He was not listening anymore; instead he kissed the other man again. Mayuri's lips were warm and dry, pushing insistently against him as his tongue was sliding in between them, into the hot wetness, tasting, probing. He ran his hands back down to Mayuri's chest. The skin slipped softly under the pads of his fingers, though this softness was broken by ridges of tissue, scars both old and new. His mouth traced Mayuri's shoulders now, down along the collar, to the white, painted chest. His tongue swirled at a hard nipple and he noted in satisfaction that when he bit down on it, a whimper escaped Mayuri, the restrained man's hands entwining themselves encouragingly in Urahara's blond hair.

Urahara leaned forward and fished a bottle of oil out from under the futon. It was cool to the touch when he spread it on his hands to warm it up, yet still Mayuri gasped aloud as his fingers entered him, one after the other. It was the loudest sound he ever made in the bed, realized Urahara, and the thought sent a sweet shiver through his spine. He swallowed hard as he forced the other's legs apart and moved between them, his fingers replaced by his member.  
Mayuri froze, his eyes widened and his silvery lips parted, but only with a short intake of breath.

Urahara hesitated.

"You all right?" he asked quietly, nuzzling the underside of Mayuri's jaw.

The other nodded.

Carefully, Urahara bit down on Mayuri's shoulder and started to thrust.

It took a minute to find that certain spot, and for about another for a soft whimper to slip through Mayuri's teeth as his body tightened around Urahara. Urahara bit down on a groan. He wanted to be patient, but it was just too sensuously stirring, too hot inside Mayuri. In a moment, the world exploded behind his eyes, every single one of his muscles stiffening and breaking in a jarring shudder that seemed to drag on forever, pulling him into one white point that pulsed in his temple, in his ears and down his entire body. Then, all of the concentrated tension poured out of him in a single sweet release.

When he finally could think clearly enough to recognize his surroundings, they were sprawled together on the floor. It was warm next to Mayuri, and the calm, even beating of his heart was deceptively relaxing. It was a strong and even rhythm, never fluttering nor speeding, as if it was the sound of just a trustworthy clockwork - and, Urahara realized, it could just as easily be one.

He reached up and put his fingers into the other's hair, curling a soft lock around them, but Mayuri quickly shooed his hand away again, and touched his face with a disapproving grimace. When he took away his hand, he glared at his fingers for a while and rubbed them together.

"You have ruined my make up," he stated sullenly.

"'M sorry," muttered Urahara sleepily as he snuggled closer.

Soft, red, morning light filtered through the opening of the door, filling the room, slowly. Outside the sun was raising and the birds have begun, loudly in the dark shrubs of the garden's far away corner.

Mayuri was still looking at his fingers. Then he turned to Urahara, grabbed his wrist, and stroked his finger pads against Urahara's palm.

"Curious," he said finally.

"What?" asked Urahara as he was staring at his palm. There was now a white circle in it.

Mayuri hesitated.

"There was a time," he said slowly, "when I was always alone, but I didn't mind it. Now, however..." He looked into Urahara's eyes and paused for a moment, as if time had stopped for him and only for him; and then, when he spoke again, his voice was low, as if uttering the words caused him great pain. "I believe I will be lonely when you leave."

"Ah!" smiled Urahara in surprise. "You are thinking about what it will be like to be a captain? I am sorry, but I am not planning to go anywhere just yet..."  
Mayuri shot a long, inscrutable look at him and for a moment Urahara thought he saw a flicker of guilt in Mayuri's eyes, but it was gone too quickly to be sure, replaced by a wry smile as all he said was:

"Indeed," he whispered. "No one does..."

 

-End-

  


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